Another Slice of Blood Orange

 

Sometimes I sit here
in the dark and ask myself
why I started this,
this burning of lifetime
spitting words into the air
like orange pits or
like blood from a split lip.
Wasn’t for any notoriety
since no one was supposed
to read them but me
and a very few who wondered
what the hell this was about.
And it wasn’t to write books,
lord knows, since I’d forgotten
how to read them years ago,
let alone write them.
It wasn’t, like you said,
for the approbation, since
I never belong with anyone.
Couldn’t be for what you call
stroking, since I’m unused to,
uncomfortable with touching.
I guess it was for a kind of
recognition, though, because
over these past ten years,
I might finally have recognized
my futile, inky-souled nature,
the guy spitting out orange pits
and blood to myself for myself.

My take on Robert Lee Brewer’s Wednesday poetry prompt in Writer’s Digest last week. He wanted a Recognition poem. I found the prompt and poem in my sleeplessness around 3:00AM this morning. Ahhh…throwback to the dark solitude of my Insomniac Poet days.

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Frameless

I don’t wonder so much
about yesterday and tomorrow anymore.
The uncertainty of my margins,
of then and then, of here and there,
of that you and this you and
me and another me, have become
unnecessary fussiness in
my frameless life.
What is certainty in a world
built upon imperfection?
I can rhyme time with mine;
mine is what this time is.
I sometimes think of you
from those days and don’t worry
about a future that never could be.
You think you escaped
my gallery of conundrums,
but I’d ripped you free from those
confining frames years ago.

In serious need of writing something after two weeks-plus on the road helping with a new granddaughter, I dashed this off between drowses last night. What’s it mean? That’s your call, kind reader.

Our Mighty Mite

You came into this world without warning,
like a tornado at 7:00 in the morning,
surprising and arriving a month early,
turning your parents’ world swirly,
and sending us miles and miles south
to learn more about you than just word of mouth.
In the hospital we met and you surprised me
and I quickly surmised, see,
you’re one tough little mite
to show such grit in this fight.
Now you’re growing stronger every minute
showing everyone you’re in it to win it.
And even if you didn’t make it home Sunday,
I know you’ll get there by Monday…
Someway.

This bit of one-handed, sleep-deprived rhyme is the story of my new granddaughter, who was in a couldn’t-wait rush to come and make the world a sweeter place. I wrote it while holding her tiny body on my chest. If that isn’t inspirational, I should hand over my poet’s union card.

When I Was Born

“When I was born,”
Grandpa’d say,
recalling his youth.
Not, “In my day,”
like other old-timers.
used the expression
whenever discussing
the Great Depression.

Today I’m the same age
he was then,
though not nearly as old.
I see when
he looked back, he saw
each day as new morn,
another time
he’d be reborn.

I wanted to use the last Story-a-Day Week One prompt, “When I was born…”, for a story, but ran out of time. I saw my old friend Joy Ann Jones was running a new series looking for 55-word poems, so I’m trying to do justice to both. And since today is my birthday and I’ve reached “that age,” I decided to write knowledge-of-age poem. So there you go…

Wake Up, It’s Sun Day

The sun rolled back aborning
onto the east side of the house this morning.
It didn’t come with a boom or crash
like when the trucks come to take the trash.
Rather, it came without any rousing sound,
though woke me as if on my window it did pound.
It snuck into my room on little cat feet
with colors of red, yellow and white, but no heat.
It crawled from over the sill to my bed,
pried open my eyes and without words it said,
“Rise and shine like me, we’ve got a whole day ahead.”
And I did, though made a silent curse in my head.
“You wake me so damn early, you know.
I don’t have to run to work anymore to put on that show.”
Sun then replied in its silent voice,
“Well, that’s good for you, but I have no choice.
The world always turns, time never stands still,
And I’m just minding my own business, waiting until
the time comes when my light goes out
and life as you know it will be snuffed without even a shout.
On that day, when days no longer happen,
I’ll recall visiting here, and your morning yappin’.
In that moment I’ll recall how I brought this ball life
in all of its beauty, its glory and strife.
So now, if you don’t mind, I’m heading west,
And I hope that you’ll give today your best.”
Chastened, I thought of how the an eclipse turned midday to night Monday,
and I vowed to never again to waste a day, honoring each as Sun Day.

Photo © Jospeh Hesch 2016

Rebuilding the Sky

The sky has fallen,
in a triphammer beat
of pieces on the roof,
moving in waves
crossing and recrossing
the blacktop road.
It teaches gravity
to the hands of the leaves,
bending their wrists
and arms toward the earth.
It grays my view,
turning down its contrast
and intensity.
Everything that was up
ten minutes ago is now down,
except my eyes.
I can’t help but scan
the sky, searching
for a hint of sunlight,
even if now all is darkness.
The rain’s abating, and
light begins rebuilding day,
propping up the damaged
sky once more,
upon a rainbow’s
scaffold.

Caught In My Own Web

I started out with a length of golden thread
with which my life’s tapestry one day would be read.
But, Oh what a tangled web I’d weave
when first I set out not to deceive,
but to become he who I’d be proud to call Me,
the man I and they always wanted me to be.

But I was the guy who’d fall for a girl
who’d never fall for me, and instead would curl
into the arms of another’s possession,
only strengthening my ardor into obsession,
which always clung stronger, in fact like a glove,
to my oft-scarred heart, than affection or love.

I was the man who with artful words
built billboard ads, where nested birds,
upon which footnotes called “news” were hung.
I crafted webs of truths (full, half and un-)
to snare those who’d read them with their heart,
missing the fine print and calling it “art.”

As a youth I somehow viewed, through history’s haze,
certain learned men, who back in their days
owned other men, as being “of their time”
and somehow not as culpable of the same crime
as those who’d as soon destroy the constitution
they built and defended, for their “peculiar institution.”

This web, strung with self-deceit and knotty lies,
supports and ensnares he I’ve come to despise.
So I bid you and they and the old me goodbye,
leaving behind the smug mug I wore while I became I.
I hope you’ll forgive me my many transgressions
and pray for any and all divine intercessions
on behalf of the boy who always meant well,
but ultimately found he wove his own private hell.